


The Angel's Call

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Profane Hymns [2]
Category: Lucifer (Comic), Lucifer (TV), The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angels, Bottom Michael, Boys Kissing, Chair Sex, Dom Lucifer, Fallen Angels, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Top Lucifer, Top Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 18:01:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14454765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: Lucifer hammers down the resistance in Michael's uttermost depths, plunging over and again, giving no quarter until he invariably cries out or shudders from being sent at a canter right through the gates of oblivion. "Take it. Michael, take it."While one hand digs into the meat of Lucifer's shoulder, as if to keep them together by sheer force, the other touches the Morningstar's features delicately. All tenderness, even as muscle grips, tightens."Lucifer." An archangel's voice lifts in prayer, praise, demand. "Take me. How I've wanted you."





	The Angel's Call

**Author's Note:**

> Themesong: Hellfire - Barns Cortney
> 
> Please feel free to leave your feedback if you're so inclined. Comments and kudos help me to craft better stories. :)

All things in their time. Michael has waited countless billions of years, since the formation of the primeval dust from Creation, to experience this.

Only right that he takes Lucifer Morningstar out of love and compassion, longing and fathomless desire.

He sucks hard and long on the thick shaft filling his mouth. The taste of sweet oil on his lips is no barrier, but as soon as he rises up, the impressive length of the Morningstar's cock ends up coated in a hand left slick by the remainder of the bottle. Pressing himself into Lucifer's grip with a cat's abandon, he straddles the elder angel's thighs and straightens up -- a very picture of unself-conscious luxuriating. He enjoys the body's wants with an inhuman lack of guilt, before he shifts back, lifted upward. The playing of the thick crown against the ring of muscle teases them both enough to make his feathers rise again.

Admiration is one thing; in Lucifer's case, patience extends, rolled out as he strikes his fingertips against the sides of the couch for the better to not just fold himself in half and demonstrate an excellence in acrobatics. His legs are perfectly tolerably placed, feet to the ground, knees soft rather than guarded, though it certainly calls to the possibility of hoisting Michael up if he chooses to do so. Sprawled out, he doesn't lack for strength. The Morningstar is just fucking indolent when it comes right down to it. He runs his fingers down the converging lines stepped into the strong core, nails dragged straight down as far as he can reach, straight into terra incognita teased by strokes into harder movement. Slipperiness is altogether welcome as he moves through Michael's fingers, thrusting.  

“Feel good?”

Michael nods, too engrossed by the sensation of rubbing the crown over that tender puckered hole and feeling Lucifer's cock slip through his curled fingers.

The Morningstar inclines, straightening a little, pushed up, balanced on one hand to be stabilized. Because dammit, he is going to watch every moment, and as soon as Michael is mounted, Lucifer is doomed. His sapphire eyes lock onto the stroking fingers waiting to engulf him, take him, and give a slick glide up to the tip of his shaft and down again.

Michael gives in after several minutes of pure temptation. Satisfied by his efforts, he impales himself down, eyes closing, smile beatific. "Bodies are wonderful," he comments, as he settles his own feet on the ground, the better to let muscle work, as well as gravity. "Yours feels amazing." Wings drape back and down, like a cloak, though there are feathers deliberately tickling the inside of Lucifer's thighs.

Hot, tight, perfectly gauged, the younger angel descends. He leans back so the muscles of his belly go taut, meeting Lucifer on the descent as his cock thrusts deep. A slow moan escapes out of the blond, hair shimmering gold in the light.

Michael takes that last fraction ground into him. The first stroke makes him roll himself back, pause, shuddering, hands bracing on the chaise behind him. So the two of them are reliant wholly on balancing atop the furniture.

Perfection in a nutshell. Perfection in an instant. Bodies are wonderful but the Devil only arches his golden eyebrow, the mercurial mortality stripped away every second that passes. He is not glowing nearly so much as the sharpened features and embellishment to his body proving him the Morningstar. His shoulders flex to hint at the very limited flicker of feathers present there, plumage battering down the darkness, plumes rippling into narrow distinction.

Lucifer says nothing, but he pinches his hands right around Michael's hips only to prove his hand supporting him was never needed in the first place. Not with the ability to levitate or hold up both their weights, but it's not that important one way or the other. Only that their closeness matters for how he smoothly pushes up and rocks his hips lightly, giving a solicitude of friction, pushing until his backside leaves the cushions, and those feathers fluttering upon his skin. His cock is buried deep as it can go. Incredible, really, but that's not the point. The point is giving Michael about all he can take, drowning in the heat, drawing back a little to encourage the dilating of the tight ring before he plunges into the tempo heedlessly, wild, sharp, and countless footsteps taken in conjunction.

Their lovemaking is as only it can be, perfect in rhythm: this is an expression of the ultimate Song, the one they both know so well. A dance, even if enacted within the deliberate restrictions of matter, physics, biology. His wings arch forward, primaries stroking from throat to shoulder to flank, in time with each thrust. Michael bows forward, hands spread over the muscle of Lucifer's chest, fingers digging in, before his head is thrown back. Silent, breathless, as yet, beyond a whispered, "Yes, yes.”

Uncensored conditions on the children of God, even the sort with the feathers. Beauty glorified to a kind of glorified violence and worship: it encapsulates the way they pull apart and draw together, destruction and creation chasing one another. Eternally recurring thrusts throw Lucifer into a trance state, his eyes going heavy-lidded and focused, but reading more from the exaltation of his expression isn't easy. Theirs is a keyed song, true, and the dark notes of a counterpoint harmony left to Michael at first until all the elements of rhythm and key fit into their sockets. Never mind the business of actually being socketed, cock pistoning deep within the younger angel with regularity known only to certain atomic structures. Resonance shines as the steady pace of undermining ego follows on lifting his hips, plowing through the soft pucker to reach untold depths, releasing from muscular imprisonment and seeking the depth of heat all over again.

In short, he is maddeningly well-timed as a divine musician should be, hammering down the resistance in Michael's uttermost depths, plunging over and again, giving no quarter until he invariably cries out or shudders from being sent at a canter right through the gates of oblivion. "Take it. Michael,  _ take it." _ As if that's in question. But encouragement is what it is.

Beatific, the look on his face. All of him fills with dawn-glow, like a lithopane lamp, poised over Lucifer with those vast wings spreading out. A foreboding sight, those dark pinions, save that they're the precursor of utter dissolution.

Even as one hand digs into the meat of Lucifer's shoulder, as if to keep them together by sheer force, the other touches the Morningstar's features delicately. "Yes, love," he says, sighing. "Most beautiful." 

All tenderness, even as muscle grips, tightens. "Lucifer." An archangel's voice lifts in prayer, praise, demand. "Take me. How I've wanted you."

Not in a rush, Lucifer thins his gaze and counts sheep or dead nuns or whatever archangels do to restrain themselves from coming undone. Gravitational lensing exaggerates the quivering liquidity of his lower body, progress made by rolling and drilling right up into Michael. Knees eventually have to rise a bit behind him, cushioning the other angel's ability to sit properly back and accept what he offers, or at least find comfort in that. He can continue to lean forward however he wants, or sprawl, but either way, the languid, jarring bounce will invariably end on a grace note and leap to another level of activity altogether.

Lucifer pulls the rust-blond angel tighter into his embrace. No mercy in the calculation, the grip on the side of the couch or the buoyant bounce to a high energy tempo, nor the ferocity of the kiss. "Say how, then. Spill it out." A sin is a sin is a sin, fuel to the praise, and angels can turn their own worship on one another. Risky, bad and dangerous to do and know, but possible. Intriguing to see how Michael reacts to the errant squeeze at the root of his shaft, the milking fingers stretching all the way up and sliding down, fretwork plucking at the crown to fill that bell-end against his palm. Torment, by any other sticky, satiny name.

Worship, indeed, not in the pure, clear notes of celestial song, but now sung in the choked voice of one who's having trouble remembering to bring air in at all. He doesn't need to breathe, but he needs air to speak or sing, at least in this form. When he can, he says, "Like this. Please," Wings spread for balance's sake as he melts into the kiss. 

The use of that hand against his own rigid cock ups the ante,  an absurd chirp of song cuts off upon his lips as it comes into play. A tipping forward of Michael’s hips, which only tightens that ring of muscle around the thick shaft invading him. Lucifer's neither gentle nor solicitous like his mortal lovers, and it's all the more thrilling for it. The pale eyes have that stricken, bewildered look, as he gazes into Lucifer's. "Unless you want something different?"

Like this: the way to perdition by way of a solid grip, a firm flick of the wrist that twists around Michael's cock until palming the very tip. Strike a bell true and it chimes loud enough to be heard miles away and no doubt with the abundance of glass and acoustically perfect stone and design, this temple to profanity shall be no different when God's children opt to worship. He is kissed as pleaded, prayerful hymn silenced by firm lips, pliable tongue driven deep enough to blindly explore his mouth.

A kiss to be reckoned with, since Lucifer discards him a second later. Not so much tossed as woven around, arm winding beneath limb and wing, palm pressed to the sensitive crux of the shoulder blades and spines, pressing completely down on a trajectory to flatten. One leg still entwined with Michael's and the Morningstar swivels on the other after the lunging step forward, rotating around to bring those luminous wings out of invisibility and intangibility. They will have a tangle of pinions one way or the other, but for all sacrifice there has to be some kind of gain.

Michael does not roll, moving with that particular turn of the tide. He soon feels the bruising grip on his backside, pushing his buttocks apart.

It's a first, for him: surrendering. And it has the thrill of the utterly alien to it. To be silenced, throat stilled in favor of the twining of tongues. The experiment of simply rolling with Lucifer has its own particular excitement. He is not intent on keeping them joined, but insistent on closenes, arms and legs and wings entangled, as if they would form a cherubim of their own by sheer agglutinative force. A questioning little sound pours into the kiss.

No hard landings from the backless couch, really more of a curvy chaise, or the ground in question. Snagging a leg or pulling in an arm is hardly impossible, their wings most certainly vying for some kind of masterful positioning. Elongated feathers gone glassy bright with their friction around the edges throw impossible lunar halos rich with power, ebbing and flowing through the celestial temperature marks that start shifting light out of gold into white and then blue. 

The Morningstar lives up to his moniker such as he lies on his side, languishing an attack as such will not bear any weakness or restraint. His tongue glides at a feather's breadth up that divide between Michael's firm buttocks, where his fingers expose the furled whorl of muscle, sustaining only an atomic-point touch that trails up. Down is no better, thrice as lengthy but still passing brief, enough to set every last iota jangling murderously in repose. He blows over that tight little curl, aiming deliberately to tease the ridges and valleys alike. "You were saying?"

Another lick, a swipe, as pointed as they come, right to the heart. Well, Michael is direct. It only serves to try his approach the once.

The passage of that tongue, followed by that breath of cool air, conjures up the appropriate tighter pucker -- as well as an absurd show of changing light, his own shifting from that ominous ember red to a lighter sunrise pink.

"Ah, you're amazing," Michael says. A certain blank wonder holds him fast. His own eyes are wide, lambent with bewilderment. This is so different from his experiences with mortals. Poised awkward on his own side, he rolls on to his back, supported and borne up just a little by deliberate tension in his own spread wings. Surrender, indeed. Fingers dive into that golden hair, though by his lack of direction, he is not certain what to do with that childish grip.

Tighter, yes, for the thumbs to dip inside and tug outwards as a child forces a bud to open. Nothing tremendous, mind, the demands on that eager hole are as slow and subtle as they come. He so gently teases the path apart, eager to expose the tender inner ring to the battery of his tongue. Lucifer lowers his head and delves, shameless about it, driven straight in to Michael's ass and curling up to flirt with oblivion before drawn back again. One ember red spark to be conjured by a bit of friction and carefully blowing, like the lessons taught to good Boy Scouts about starting a proper fire. Well, this sort requires very cautious efforts, all things considered. Mustn't frighten the prey.

“There,” says the younger angel. He can hardly supply more assistance other than by thrusting his hips up.

Michael  _ is _ prey, just as all things are, to the Prince of the East. His hands sink in deeper to the offered muscles, kneading, spreading, pushing together the glutes and pulling them apart as Michael rolls. A curious look skims up the line of his elongated body, the flattening of wings and the spreading naturally a cause of consideration. Mostly. Then he simply bites Michael's inner thigh and resumes marching inwards, nibbling, nipping, slaking a thirst by lick and suckling kisses that would break capillaries under any other circumstance.

The room all but glitters that light show, like dawn coming and going on a cloudy morning. Subtle shifts of light brighten almost to white at those bites. He does, however, curl up, flipping wings back a little, the better to prop his weight on hands behind him. Michael’s eyes are storm-wild, but not in anger or distress.

Michael gets tongue-fucked, one way or the other, through all the forces arrayed against them prove inconceivably insufficient to halt the vigorous intensity. Let those wings twitch and flutter, raking up new and tremendous bursts of air for their limitless flapping. Michael might try to pull away or drag himself to the ends of the earth; he still sampled, impaled by a lavishly pointed muscle flickering, writhing to work its way into him. Hands guide him apart and draw wet spirals and circles over the clenched portal until even that resistance fades. However long it takes, pleasure follows.

Bewilderment, perhaps, that matter defies will. Dignity lies in tatters, clarity utterly lost, burnt in that conflagration of nerves. "Beautiful one," he says, and it's a plea, even as it's praise, if for what isn't clear. Muscles jump into painful definition, galvanic jolts and he spreads his legs the further to invite tongue and fingers to glide deeper. Keeping his hands away from his cock proves increasingly difficult.

A fingertip coaxes out a softer blooming, sliding in and out of the puckered hole in shallow delves to test for the strength of the resistance therein.

"Mmmhmm?" Head lifted, Lucifer's movements continue unabated, shouldering the underside of Michael's thigh to support him. He runs his tongue through the descending curve right down to the crenellated pouch that, all things considered, is worth wrapping his lips around and suckling too. Gentle, here, no teeth and only the molten heat of a demanding mouth. "Think I can get you off this way?"

"Yes," he says, voice shaky. "I am sure you can. Do you want to?" Drag himself away? Hardly. Submit to this -- oh, yes. Shivering, though here is a creature who feels no chill in the depths of space, nor burns when diving through stellar eruptions.

More control than a mortal, forcing himself to relax, little by little, though that finger will find itself welcomed by a grip that invites rather than resents intrusion. Michael pushes back upon the digit, the better to drag a caress upon jangling nerves that covet attention. His only scent is that stillness before summer dawn, the breath of sleeping plants.

The answer is that slim finger licked, appropriating a new spot in the rosette's heart. Lucifer twists his hand to core the space out, back and forth, entering a whole new dimension of violation with all the patience of an immortal turned upon another. Another lap of his tongue rushes over the curve of the buttock and then between, each laving slide uncooperative with whatever lubricant was already applied. Sweet almond oil, how sweet you are, especially so liberally dabbed and spread out. It merely encourages further application by finger-painting, thumbed over the rim, back and forth.

“Deeper inside. Let me feel you, please,” Michael says.

“Patience.” Another bite punctuates Lucifer's reply.

One finger, then two, rotated around and twisted to urge Michael to move in tune with him. Burning kisses linger as Lucifer spreads his fingers apart, and neatly shoves his tongue between. Out to make Michael scream? No. Fall apart? For certain.

He keeps forgetting to bring in air. There are some absurd balloon squeaks as a result. He could stop, make it a struggle, protest, but for the utter lack of desire to do so. Michael’s expressions change like cloud shadows, confusion, not quite pain, a tremulous pleasure. He plants his feet, but not to push away.

He keeps forgetting to think other than watching. Lucifer watches so much; it's his primary mode of being. Learn, observe, use that knowledge. For this, however, the concept of time is laughable and unrushed, his feast slaked on the bright-winged seraph will take no little time to appreciate. As far as his fingers can open that little portal, he violates it time and again with his tongue, suckling kisses and possibly a sting of discomfort now and then while testing another angle of attack. Though honestly, what Michael needs is a test of the flesh.

"Lucifer," Michael says on a gulp, body jerking. Still achingly hard, only now does he bring around his own hand to take that shaft, dare a stroke.

Lucifer’s fingers curl up and press along the velvet heat of the gripping wall, nudging here and there in search of a very specific point. Not quite pain, tremulous and fervid notes must be struck again and again upon that secretive spot given to humanity as a wonder.

"Hands off." One deviation, just that, especially as he chooses his punctuation point by curling fingertips up and pushing. "Pinch your nipples. Experience this without touching your cock. You'll have your release, I guarantee. And it won't stop until we do."

Michael hesitates, that hand hovering, but obeys. "I trust you," he says. When has that fragile note rung in his voice? How many millennia since? Each press, each nudge, makes his hips arch up in the kind of pose that'd cost a human quivering muscles and cramps.

The little cries have their shares of over- and under-tones, swift chords struck out. How much more range does the immortal instrument have than mortal bodies? His fingers tremble, but he does as ordered, toying first gently, then with more strength, tugging hard on his nipples. The pull on the receptive nubs has an immediate effect, his hole clenching and.toes starting to curl.

How many billions of years? It's unlikely that Michael ever gave Lucifer such sounds to hang stars on after the Pit; courtesy visits or conjugal ones tend to raise too much attention and not be the kind of thing celebrated and honoured by the power that is.

So taking up on that, he merely bows his head and makes something beautiful of Michael, the sight of him writhing for mercy, feathers dancing up that curve of his back where the pinions and shorter, downier feathers lick along the perfect, pristine flesh to embody another kind of stimulus.

That maddening caress brings deeper notes into the not-quite-song, more the symphony tuning up, the chaos of random arpeggios. Arching again, Michael tries to keep to something like breathing. Surrender is new and alien, but oh so beguiling. His eyes are wide, and he gives up and lies back again. "I can't last long, beloved. This is too much. You know so much. Will you let me…?"

“Wait.” Lucifer's response is muffled, accommodating another siege on that tender portal. He sucks with abandon along the pink rim, prying his fingers wider apart. A savage twist begets a sharp, hollow cry of pleasure from the darker haired angel, followed by the cantilevering of his hips to greedily take more. Strong fingers go lower as he pins Michael's leg to the chaise.


End file.
